


outside over there

by fortinbrassiere



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is rude but we love him anyway, Indulgent pre-slash, M/M, Neighbor au, Smoking, balconies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortinbrassiere/pseuds/fortinbrassiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is the ideal neighbor. He is aware of this.</p><p>He tries very hard. He adheres to the building manager’s rules against pets, though he wouldn’t mind having a cat. He doesn’t broadcast loud, offensive music for the rest of the building to hear.He doesn’t stand in the hallway and scream at his significant other while angrily trying to fit the car key into the doorknob. His wildest party in the time since he became a tenant in the building consisted of him, his sister, and a bottle of tequila while they watched movies and played drinking games. Grantaire might as well be the patron saint of considerate neighbors.</p><p>The man the next door down, on the other hand, is <i>fucking awful</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	outside over there

**Author's Note:**

> I've always liked the trope of antagonistic neighbors, so I thought I'd try it with Enjolras and Grantaire (though they're still pretty chill).I hope you enjoy it! I really liked writing this, so I may continue it.

Grantaire is the ideal neighbor. He is aware of this. 

He tries very hard. He adheres to the building manager’s rules against pets, though he wouldn’t mind having a cat. He doesn’t broadcast loud, offensive music for the rest of the building to hear. He doesn’t stand in the hallway and scream at his significant other while angrily trying to fit the car key into the doorknob. His wildest party in the time since he became a tenant in the building consisted of him, his sister, and a bottle of tequila while they watched movies and played drinking games. Unlike his upstairs neighbor, he has never been the cause of any strange bathroom leaks. He may keep strange hours, but he’s quiet with his comings and goings, and even though he does bring people back to his place pretty often, his bedroom has been carefully set up to avoid any headboard related incidents on a shared wall. Grantaire might as well be the patron saint of considerate neighbors.

The man the next door down, on the other hand, is _fucking awful_.

Enjolras is the most beautiful, frustrating man on the planet. He is possibly the worst neighbor Grantaire has ever suffered, and his last apartment complex had been home to multiple amateur meth labs.

At least meth labs operate under a veil of secrecy, no matter how sheer it may be. Rarely did they throw parties of a large and loud enough caliber to merit suggestions of calling the police (which no one would do, as, in addition to being beautiful, Enjolras is terrifying). They didn’t blare loud  music (ranging from Swedish house to the national anthem) at odd hours of the night. They rarely caused power outages and never staged protests in their living rooms. There were the memorable occasions when those running said meth labs were escorted out by the police, but at least then Grantaire didn’t have to worry about them returning.

And yet, for an inconsiderate neighbor who keeps half of the building up at night, Enjolras is a remorseless, stone cold asshole. He very obviously disdains Grantaire, for reasons that are entirely unknown. He’s kind enough to the young woman down the hall, who (like Grantaire), is both too enamored and terrified of Enjolras to do anything more than stutter incoherently at his presence. When he had learned that the older man down the hall had experienced thinly veiled racial discrimination at work, he had been happy to advise the man and provide the number of a friend who could offer legal counsel. He would hold elevators open for other tenants, and, occasionally, he might even crack a smile in someone’s direction.

None of this neighborly kindness is directed at Grantaire -- who, being the only person sharing a wall with Enjolras, probably deserves it the most. They run into each other rarely, and when they do, Grantaire is met with only cold, blank expressions and curt nods. When caught in the elevator together, Enjolras will stand as far away as humanly possible, pointedly focusing all of his attention on his smartphone. There have been a handful of times when the two have run into each other when Grantaire was either bringing someone home at night or saying goodbye in the morning, and it had been hard to ignore the looks of disgust that Enjolras had flung his way.

The strange, undeserved animosity is enough to keep Grantaire on the edges of Enjolras’ radar, more puzzled and annoyed than anything, and the two of them seem to avoid each other, either intentionally or unintentionally.

This casual avoidance is what causes Grantaire to freeze when a disgruntled Enjolras bursts out of his apartment and onto his balcony, effectively interrupting Grantaire’s afternoon cigarette. Loud, pulsating music follows him, only to be muffled slightly when the door slams shut behind him.

Grantaire observes as Enjolras stumbles to the rail of the balcony with a disgruntled sigh, hands fisted in his curly hair. He slumps against it and glares down at the streets of Paris, the men and women down below swaddled against the cold of autumn in chic, dark coats and expensive scarves. Enjolras, on the other hand, braves the weather with bare arms and a frown. It isn’t until he leans back with a dejected sigh that he notices Grantaire.

“Hi,” is all he says.

“Hi,” Grantaire responds, voice wavering awkwardly. He isn’t entirely sure what the protocol is for random encounters with hot, rude neighbors, so he focuses on his cigarette instead.

There are a few, tense, moments, before Enjolras deflates with yet _another_ sigh, and asks, “Do you have another one of those?”

Eyebrows raised, Grantaire nods. Their balconies are close enough that he can easily reach over and offer one to Enjolras, and he passes his lighter along with it. His eyes follow Enjolras’ long, slender fingers as they wrap around the silver lighter and flick it on, one hand cupped around the cigarette to protect it from the wind. He takes a drag from the cigarette, holds it in, and then lets it out in a smooth, steady string. His body seems to loosen with the motion, the taut line of his shoulders settling into something slightly more relaxed. He lets out a groan that is almost obscene. Grantaire stares.

“Sorry,” Enjolras apologizes, cheeks flushing as he realizes that he just let out a sound unfit for public interaction. “And thank you. I haven’t smoked in a while.”

He passes the lighter back over the balcony, and Grantaire slips it into his back pocket. “I didn’t know you smoked at all,” Grantaire replies, watching the cigarette as it dangles from Enjolras’ lips.  

His neighbor pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and expertly taps the ash away, fingers relaxed. “It’s a bad habit,” Enjolras admits mildly, surveying the object in question. “I only smoke when I’m stressed.”

Grantaire snorts and mutters something about how that’s the worst time time to smoke. He briefly wonders what kind of stress could be considered enough to send the patron saint of hard work and overtime fleeing his warm apartment for the cold October evening. The walls are thin enough that he knows that Enjolras exists in a permanent state of hurry, slamming doors and banging around every morning in an attempt to get out on time. Once, as Grantaire was coming home from his sister’s birthday at five in the morning, he had run into Enjolras while trying to fit his key into the doorknob. To be more accurate, Enjolras had run into him; he had come flying out of his apartment with a piece of toast dangling from his mouth, juggling coffee and a stack of papers as he tried to lock his door behind him. His jacket had been on inside-out and his hair had been ridiculously mussed, as though he hadn’t even looked in the mirror.

Grantaire, sleep addled and slightly drunk still, had reached up and brushed up a piece of Enjolras’ hair down before slipping into his own apartment. He idly wonders if maybe that had attributed to Enjolras’ apparent distaste for him.

Brushing that thought away, he raises an eyebrow. “Wanna talk about it?” He asks, tone taking on that of someone who doesn’t _really_ want to talk about it, but isn’t entirely opposed, either. This conversation has been oddly devoid of animosity, and Grantaire is the type of masochist who is willing to suffer the possibility of upcoming tension for a few minutes of idle banter.

Enjolras responds in the frustrated, irate tone of someone who doesn’t _really_ want to spill his guts to a near stranger, but is too frustrated not to. “My friends are annoying,” is all he offers. He takes a few steps back, until he’s slumped against the door to his apartment.

Grantaire scoffs. A second too late, when Enjolras whips his head around and narrows his eyes, he realizes how rude that may have come off.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “It just isn’t that surprising that your loud-ass friends are annoying.”

“My friends aren’t _that_ loud.”

Grantaire stares at him. His cigarette, held loosely in one hand, burns unnoticed. “Yeah, they are. And the walls are thin as hell.”

“The walls aren’t that thin,” Enjolras rebukes, taking another, shorter drag of his cigarette. He’s apparently either unaware of or unperturbed by Grantaire’s incredulous stare, and he continues with, “It’s not like I hear you all the time.”

“That’s because I’m actually _quiet_.”

Enjolras slides down the double doors with a frown, mirroring Grantaire’s position. He’s still visible through the wrought iron bars of the balcony, cheeks bitten red from the cold. He passes a hand over the side of his head, the fingers not holding the cigarette idly brushing down a lock of hair, and looks at Grantaire. “Wait, don’t you have people over all the time?”

With a roll of his eyes, Grantaire taps off the short column of ash that his cigarette had been reduced to during his time staring at Enjolras. “Yeah, quiet people. Students. Family. Nude models.” He grins when Enjolras’ mouth curls into a thin line of distaste, and protests, “That wasn’t an innuendo, I swear.”

That prompts a small smile from Enjolras, who shifts his eyes away from studying his cigarette to look at Grantaire. When he does, the smile falls away, his brow wrinkling in perplexion instead. “Why haven’t you complained?”

Grantaire shrugs, unwilling to waste his breath explaining to the object of his affections why he hasn’t come pounding on his door with demands. The music from inside is still pulsating loudly, but it seems as though what had previously been Swedish house music has changed to American Top 40 Hits. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Frowning, Enjolras stands up immediately. He turns around and flings the door to his apartment open without preamble, visibly flinching when loud American rap music begins pouring from the apartment, the bass loud enough to drown out the actual words. Grantaire watches with raised eyebrows as Enjolras marches straight into the apartment, cigarette still burning in his hand.

There are a few crashes from just inside the door, barely audible over the music, and Grantaire stands up and leans over the balcony railing in a vain attempt at seeing into the apartment. The long, gauzy curtains that hang to the inside of the doors sway in the breeze, a peaceful sight compared to the chaotic noise coming from inside. The music pounds, loud as ever, and there are  a few shouted greetings, loud enough that Grantaire briefly questions whether or not they were uttered by human beings.

He hears one or two more bangs before the music is cut off abruptly, a chorus of groans and a few confused questions of “What the-?” taking their place. A few more muffled crashes, and then Enjolras is back outside, slamming the door against his friend’s protestations.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says. Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by more banging noises, and then the double doors into Enjolras’ apartment are thrown open again, someone loudly demanding, “Enjolras, what the fuck-” before Enjolras slams them unceremoniously shut again, right in his friend’s face. Enjolras leans against them, anchoring them closed with the weight of his body, and says, tone apologetic, “We’ll try and keep it down from now on.”

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow in amusement, watching as Enjolras slams his elbow into one of the glass panes of the door against another attempt from his friends inside.  “Uh, thanks,” he says, slightly awed. He pushes back from the edge of the balcony with a sigh, and stubs the remainder of his cigarette out on the ashtray with a sigh. “It really isn’t a big deal.”

Enjolras levels him with an unimpressed stare, and Grantaire cracks with a grin. “Seriously, I’ve lived through worse,” he lies. “I’m actually heading out in a few, so you don’t have to worry about it tonight.”

He watches as Enjolras stubs his cigarette out on the railing of the balcony, then frowns when he realizes he doesn’t have an ashtray. He holds onto it instead, and says, “No, I’m really sorry about this. And it won’t kill them to learn some manners.” His face contorts comically after that last part, as though he’s actually considering the possibility and has come to the conclusion that it might actually kill one or two of his friends.

“Don’t sweat it. Have fun, all of you.” He gives a small smile and a little wave before he turns to pull open the doors to his own apartment, blessedly free of loud music and even louder friends.

Enjolras is frowning, but he responds to Grantaire’s small wave with one of his own. “Yeah, you too.”

It isn’t until Grantaire is inside and closing the door behind him that he hears, “Wait, Grantaire!” He pokes his head back outside to see Enjolras awkwardly leaning over the railing of his balcony, bare arms folded one over the other. “Um, are you going to be out here tomorrow?”

Grantaire nods, and watches in amazement as his terrifying, loud, beautiful neighbor cracks a nervous smile. “Okay. See you around, then.”

“See you around,” Grantaire echoes. Enjolras pushes off of the railing and retreats into his apartment, smile fading into his usual look of annoyance when he’s greeted by an onslaught of swear words and interrogations. Grantaire can hear him muttering at people to leave him alone as the doors swing shut behind him.

He returns to his own apartment with a small smile and a quiet click of the balcony door, realizing as he shrugs his dinner jacket on that he hadn’t  introduced himself.


End file.
